Noxi: Yes, it's another AU. I never thought I'd give the Soldier storyline any thought, but I've said that about plenty of things. So here I am. I saw a prompt and decided to go with it, twisting it to fit my needs, both Caryl and Muse. It will either be a huge endeavor, much like Sky Country, or it will be sweet and brief. I'm not sure yet. I'll see where Carol and Daryl take me. I hope you will join me.

To be clear: I have no personal knowledge of the Wars - WWII and Vietnam - but they will both be used here. All my knowledge is the tiny bit I have retained from high school, and countless searches of the web and even media. If you see something that is wrong, please don't hesitate to tell me. I will gladly look it over and see what I missed.

!Warning!: Racial Slurs, Racism, Bigotry, Violence, Attempted Suicide, Graphic Scenes of Torture and Violence, Death, Language and Sexual Connotations.

Dear Jane

1974 - Saigon, Vietnam

He huddled against the tent as the rain poured over his head, the glare of the rollie burning bright red, red as the crimson that was splashed at his feet. You got used to red - red and green. Some day's you didn't know what was what and everything blurred together. One day to the next, one gook to the other, one dead brother after another. It was all either perfectly clear or hazy as fuck. He didn't know which he preferred; watching his brothers die around him, with perfect clarity, knowing that with just the slightest shift in fate, destiny, whatever they called it, he could be right there, lying on the ground, next to the brother he'd just taken a shit with four hours before. Or he was watching it all through the smoke that lingered like a bad hangover, burning his eyes, the smell of charred flesh searing his senses and the screams echoing in his head.

He figured it'd be easiest to just fuckin' die. Nothing fancy, nothing dramatic - just him, staring up at the sky, lifeless.

But it didn't matter what he thought. Because each day he woke up after the few sparse hours of sleep he got, he still picked up that rifle and he still kept moving his feet. There wasn't a thing that kept him alive, except maybe -

No. It was bad juju counting on a fantasy. He could hold that dream close as he wanted but it was nothing but that - a dream. And a bad one at that. He'd never had nothing before and the fuckin' war sure wasn't gonna change that. No matter how many letters he wrote, no matter how many he kept tucked in the pocket of his bag. It wouldn't keep him warm at night, and it wouldn't stop a bullet from blowing his brains to bits. All he had was this. His own side arm, the brother still breathing at his back, and the empty promise of liberty.

The smoke curled in his lungs gratefully, burning better than the smell of charred flesh that head been lingering in his nose all damn day. He'd watched sixteen men either be riddled with bullets, burned or beaten to death. Sixteen of his brothers. He was pretty sure he saw one get pulled away into the blurry green of the wet jungle that surrounded him, screaming the entire way. He could still hear him now. Harkin, J. Number one hundred and eighty nine. Screaming bloody murder for something that wouldn't ever come. Earlier, Jimmy had been laughing about tying the knot with his girl, Barbara. And as the ash from the fires fell down on him like snow, all he could see was that stupid fuckin' rice they threw at wedding's, and all he could hear was Jimmy's laugh as his eyes shined each time he said Barbara.

But there would be no rice and there would be no ring, and there was nothing. Nothing but fire and ash and death, and the distant cry of Barbara mourning.

James was the the hundred and eighty-ninth brother he watched die. James was the echo in his head, reminding him of how short and fleeting life was. Jimmy was the constant reminder of all the things he had never had.

And had ever given up.

Jimmy wasn't the first, and he wouldn't be the last. Jimmy was just one of many. And that's what he kept telling himself, to get passed the screaming and the smell, and the hopelessness that ate him in the weak hours of the morning when he lingered between sleep and death.

Nothing, no one, would ever replace Jimmy. But he was a memory that couldn't be dwelled on. He was gone, and that was it. Another day, another loss, more emptiness.

The smoke burned bright in the darkness, reminding him that he was still breathing, and that it was the ash he wanted in his lungs.

"Letter, Private." He turned to the empty voice behind him, surprised to hear the news, and yet not because he knew. He knew that no matter what he had said, she would send one back. He had learned that it was just who she was. Determined in her silence, strong in her weakness, and fierce in her acceptance. It had started as nothing but random chance, and had turned into hope.

He took the envelope in his hands, nodding to the faceless officer as the smooth exterior of the white parchment was a welcome touch. It was always welcome. Compared to the feeling of dirt beneath his hands, and the blood that stained his fingernails, and the callouses he'd gained from the rifle he carried; the welcome sight of the near pristine letter was like God, shining the goddamn holy light on him.

This would probably be the last one he received. And that opened a hole so wide in his chest, he wasn't sure he could breathe.

He dropped the cig, the red glare rolling and fading away from him as he held the letter like gold in his hands. Opening it meant accepting what he had given up. Opening it meant the he was letting go. Opening it meant ripping open the wound that he had never really closed.

But he had to know.

His finger slipped beneath the crease and pulled the envelope apart, until he was tearing it open in his haste. A sheet of paper fluttered to the ground, and he scrambled to retrieve it, the rain already ruining it. But it didn't matter because it wasn't important.

He stared down at his own handwriting, as it faded to black streaks in the pouring rain. It was the last letter he had sent her. The one where he had told her this was. It was over, done, finished. Whatever it was between them, he was ending it. Because he wasn't going to be responsible. His eyes shifted to the paper left in his hands. He pulled the remaining note from what was left of the envelope, dropping that to the ground as well. He held the small note in his hands, carefully, preciously.

His lips parted in stunned silence as he read over the lines, over and over.

Dear Daryl,

You can have this goddamn thing back. I don't want it, and I don't accept it.

When you get back, you can tell me you're sorry.

Love,

Carol

He stared, stunned at the neat scrawl that barely filled the page, consuming him. She had basically given him the finger. She might as well have put "fuck you" in big, black letters. But all he could see was "I will wait for you." He laughed, short and desperate, painfully. He ran his fingers over the sheet of paper, memorizing each word, burning them into his brain, wishing he could hear her instead. He was a jackass, and she still didn't care. His fingers trembled with the thought, finger moving continuously over one word until his finger was stained with the ink and he could barely read the single word that stood like a beacon above her name.

Until he felt the flaw. He stared down at the paper, determined to figure out what had warped the material so, and clamped his mouth shut at the realization.

Water. Water had damaged the paper, even smearing some of the letters. And it wasn't the rain that beat down above him, soaking him to the bone and sending a shiver up his spine. It was from tears.

She had been crying when she had wrote this.

He curled around the letter, his own eyes burning and a choked sound rushing passed his lips. She had shed tears for him. No one had ever done that before. Not his brothers. Not even his own Ma.

This woman, who he had never met, had never heard, have never touched - she had cried for him.

He slid to the ground, eyes blinking away the mist of rain that hit his face, pressing the note to his lips as he breathed in again, and again and again and only one word beat against him - Carol.

A/N: A Dear Jane is similar to a Dear John, only to a female counterpart or lover. Clearly, this will lead to other places, and I've started at the end, instead of a beginning. But I do have something that I hope will make you all cry as I have already done. Thank you so much for reading! Reviews, and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. As always, I hope you enjoyed!